


Work (is love made visible)

by Jalapeno_Helen



Category: Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, code monkey courtship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalapeno_Helen/pseuds/Jalapeno_Helen
Summary: Castiel Novak runs the IT department at Midgard Community College with an iron fist. He's bland and dull andserious—but Crowley kind of likes him anyway.
Relationships: Castiel/Crowley (Supernatural), Loki/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Work (is love made visible)

Crowley knows something is amiss when he passes Clint’s cubicle, only to find it’s been cleaned of the usual candy wrappers, soda cans, and coffee cups. He’s even made an effort to organize his paper files into a single hill rather than a row of mountains.

He glances up to see Crowley in the doorway and, without a moment’s hesitation, hisses, “Shitting fuck, man, why are you standing around? IT’s coming.”

Crowley is rarely struck dumb, but Clint Barton’s vocabulary repeatedly leaves him wondering how such a poor example of humanity was hired within the higher education field. He leans against the cubicle partition—a risk, considering they aren’t rated to support anything heavier than thumbtacks—and says, “I didn’t know the geek squad got your panties in such a twist.”

“Novak called,” Clint pointedly informs him. “He’s headed this way to install the new phones. ETA five minutes.”

Usually, IT's idea of “five minutes” equals two hours in the real world, where real people do real things. But Castiel Novak, head of IT on campus, is not like his minions: when he says five minutes, he means four, and he absolutely, positively refuses to let anyone, for any reason, within any department, slough off on his digital commandments.

Crowley checks his watch. “That’s just enough time to make peace with my gods. You’ll excuse me.”

“You better hide that iTunes shortcut, man!” Clint warns as Crowley heads for his own cubicle and computer, onto which he has dared to download a legal and trusted music client.

Loki is already there, stuffing a black trash bag (stolen, no doubt, from the dubiously locked janitorial closet) with Crowley's impressive paper cup collection. It’s a rare act of thoughtfulness on Loki’s part, since his own workspace—which is to say, the cubicle right across from Crowley’s—is kept immaculately clean and organized. (The bloke even tosses old Post-It notes. Crowley only throws _those_ away when they start obscuring his view of the monitor.)

“I already hid the shortcut,” Loki announces. “But there’s nothing I can do about the program menu.”

Crowley frowns. “How did you log on in the first place? I changed my network password yesterday.”

Loki just looks at him; Crowley holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Once upon a time _he_ used to be the know-it-all of the whole department, but then Singer had gone and hired Loki, whose ability to Acquire Valuable Information was enviable and, unfortunately, bested Crowley’s methods from time to time. Clint had all but shuddered when he first met Loki, glancing from him to Crowley and saying, _Fuck a tree, you two are like peas in a goddamn pod._

“I assume you forgot about the new phones,” Loki calmly continues. “Administration sent the installation schedule last month.”

Crowley vaguely recalls something about it, but a month is like a lifetime here in the web building. He’s sure the e-mail is sitting in the dusty, forgotten archives of his Outlook account, dismissed the moment he read it.

“And I’m sure you didn’t,” Crowley returns, “because new phones means seeing Steve Rogers. I’ll bet good money you marked it down on your calendar. Perhaps you even drew little hearts around the date.”

Loki opens his mouth to reply with what is sure to be a worthy response, but Natasha sticks her impeccable head through the doorway and says, “IT van just parked. Give me the bag.”

Loki hands it over without comment. Not even he disobeys Natasha when she’s in a do-or-die mood.

“I suggest you two hide whatever contraband you have and pretend to work,” she adds before ducking away, taking the long route around the building to avoid running into Novak.

“Right, then,” Crowley cheerfully says. “I’ve thirty departmental PDFs to update.”

“I have a senior class worth of dual enrollment applications to approve,” Loki grudgingly admits.

They part ways—as far as can be expected, when their cubicles are separated by a yard of space—and Crowley launches his array of programs: the e-mail client, the web request page, bloody Dreamweaver, and then plugs in his earbuds, because life without music is like eggnog without alcohol, or raisins without the yogurt coating, or whatever.

It can’t be more than a half-hour before someone knocks. He turns to see Novak, bland and uninteresting as ever, standing with a small cardboard box stuffed beneath one arm and a clipboard in the other. His only appreciable trait is that he doesn’t smear on an artificial smile and inquire about Crowley’s day. 

“Mr. Crowley,” Novak says, nodding. “I have your phone. Do you have time for training?”

“What the hell for?” Crowley demands. “My communication policy is simple: ignore incoming calls and avoid making outgoing calls. It’s not rocket science, and I certainly don't need _training_.”

Something like a smile flickers over Novak’s dull face. Crowley huffs but waves him over.

“All right, then,” he mutters. “Dazzle me.”

Novak installs the phone so quickly that Crowley can’t tell what hooks up to what, but there’s a digital display on it so that already doesn't bode well. Worse, it has a forwarding function that can connect right to Crowley’s cell, meaning he has the option of accepting calls after 5:00 P.M. and on weekends.

“Wait,” Crowley interrupts, derailing Novak’s memorized spiel. “You’re saying I’m connected to this office 24/7? I have no reason whatsoever to miss anything?”

Novak sighs, like he’s not pleased with it, either. At least he’s human in that regard.

“I’m afraid so. You can disable the function, but it depends on how Mr. Singer wants to run this particular department.” He pauses before adding, “I don’t think you have much to worry about. He shares your sentiments on the matter.”

Crowley reaches around Novak to untick the ‘call forward’ option. 

“Do you have any questions?” Novak asks, collecting the box and plastic packaging. “I realize everyone’s learning curve is different when it comes to new technology.” 

Crowley shakes his head, and Novak looks like he’s about to give the standard call-us-if-you-have-any-concerns bit, when a laugh suddenly floats above the partition walls. It sounds like Loki.

Christ almighty, it _is_ Loki.

Crowley and Novak peek around the doorway, just enough to glimpse at where Loki and Steve are standing: Loki, leaning against his desk, casual and unconcerned as you please, and Steve, that poor schmuck, ducking his head, hands in his pockets, his right foot resting on the tip of his shoe. It’s a bloody Hallmark image if Crowley’s ever seen one.

“Looks like I win the pool,” Crowley says, feeling gleeful. “The age-old mystery of whether Loki is capable of emotion has been solved at last.”

Novak sounds less than impressed when he points out, “Steve and I are scheduled the begin installations in the library this afternoon. We can't afford a delay.”

“So? Let Steve stay for a bit,” Crowley suggests. Novak frowns and looks like he wants to argue, but Crowley rolls his eyes and says, “Honestly, a little rebellion won’t kill you.”

Novak glances at the crappy wall clock Bobby had ordered _en masse_ for their building.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to stay a few minutes more. I could...” He trails off. “Ensure your phone receives calls?”

“That would be lovely,” Crowley sweetly retorts. “Have at it.”

Novak dials the number from his ancient, indestructible Nokia. Crowley’s new phone rings, flashing Novak’s number. The whole process takes all of fifteen seconds, and is a lousy plan, as far as buying time goes. The only reward Crowley gets is the sound of Steve Rogers chattering on, meaning Loki must be over the _moon_ with all the one-on-one interaction this has netted him. 

He finally sighs, grabs his coat, and slips it on.

“Coffee?” he offers, because the only way Novak will stop hovering is if he completely removes himself from the building, and the only way _that_ will ever happen is if someone gently shows him the door. Crowley is willing to buy him off with a cup of joe just this once, for Loki’s sake.

“I know what you’re up to,” Novak tells him, point blank. Regardless, he gathers his things and moves into the small hallway, silently accepting Crowley’s invitation.

Crowley loudly announces, “We’re heading out for an extraordinarily early lunch. I would suggest you two morons do the same,” and he all but drags Novak along, making a special effort to hurry past Clint lest he attempt to engage in conversation. Darcy waves from the front desk as they leave. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Crowley says when the wind finally hits him. “I’ll have to remember my friggin’ parka tomorrow. And I don’t even know what to call what _you’re_ wearing. Flasher coat? Pedo jacket?”

“It is a mere raincoat, Mr. Crowley,” he replies, annoyed, to which Crowley waves his hand to dismiss Novak’s honorific.

“We’re both adults, no need for the ‘mister’. It’s Crowley, mate.”

“In that case, please call me Castiel. Referring to me by my last name makes me feel like I’m in prison.” He stuffs his own hands in the pockets of his hideous tan jacket before adding, “Had I known we would be sharing company, I would have worn something more suitable to your tastes.”

Crowley whistles. “ _Sarcasm_. Already I’ve influenced you for the worse.”

They cross the small street that splits the campus, managing to survive the journey despite students’ terrible driving skills. Crowley only flips off one distracted driver and feels vindicated when the young woman, cell phone in hand, is so embarrassed that her blush can be seen through the windshield. Castiel frowns disapprovingly at the rude gesture, but doesn’t mention it. Instead he says, “Describe Mr. Lyesmith. What are some of his best qualities?”

“Loki doesn’t have any ‘best’ qualities,” Crowley easily answers, more than happy to spill Loki’s pettier secrets. “He only has less evil qualities. But if it’s worth anything, he’s been smitten with your fair-haired minion for _months_.”

“Our help desk has received an influx of calls from... Loki. Evidently he has needed a new account password on three separate occasions.” Castiel pauses doubtfully. “The process doesn’t take long, but each instance required twenty minutes of Steve’s time.”

“That’s code monkey courtship. You have about two more months of that to look forward to,” Crowley tells him, because when Loki decides he wants something, he takes his sweet, sweet time planning a strategy.

Crowley opens the library door and gestures for Castiel to enter first; in return, Castiel looks at him the same way a child looks at a pair of socks he’s received for Christmas.

It is, Crowley decides, going to be an uphill battle.

\---

Crowley’s sure he’ll see Steve sometime in the near future, but he doesn’t expect it to be the same week, and he’s especially not counting on a legitimate problem rather than something Loki dreamed up. Crowley’s blissfully unaware of the issue until Bobby calls and says, “The site keeps timing out. Get your ass in the office _now_.”

Crowley doesn’t take to being bossed around, but he knows a) code monkeys don’t joke about massive server failures, and b) Bobby doesn’t joke at all, ever, meaning what was supposed to be a nice Friday morning will become a hellish day with at least three major departments—admissions, administration, and Online Learning—screaming blue murder, their very existence threatened by a problem that is probably out of Crowley’s hands anyway.

When Crowley reaches the building, Darcy is at the front desk, looking a little terrified, and Clint is in his cubicle muttering strings of four-letter words that don’t even make sense.

There’s already an absurd number of voice mails waiting on his shiny new phone, and the system is set up so that all messages are sent to his e-mail as well, meaning his average Inbox population has doubled in the last twelve hours. Outside he’s cool as a cucumber; inside he’s emotionally imploding, because spring registration begins next week and this sort of fiasco costs people their jobs. He scrolls through the list of messages, choosing to ignore most of them based on their preview sentences alone: _This is so-and-so from Department X. Do you know why the site is running so slow?_

Near the bottom is an e-mail from Castiel. Crowley opens it based on the assumption Cas won’t ask dumb questions.

_Crowley,_

_I have taken the liberty of collecting the past twenty-four hours worth of server updates and activity. I have attached this information for your review. This should aid in your assessment of what might be affecting the website’s loading time._

_If the issue is not based on code, please call me. I can restore the server to this past Wednesday. The updates you have made since will be lost, but it is a last resort._

_-Castiel Novak,  
Information Technology Services_

Crowley, dumbstruck, opens the document Castiel included. It’s a list of every update the web team has made since yesterday morning, giving them the starting point they need to locate the root of the problem.

Crowley hits ‘reply’.

_Cas,_

_I love you._

_-F. Crowley  
Senior Web Team Management_

Crowley forwards the list to Loki, Clint, and Natasha before digging his claws into the information. A few minutes later, Castiel writes back.

_Crowley,_

_Please refrain from such declarations. All electronic correspondence is stored within our system for legal reasons._

_-Castiel Novak,  
Information Technology Services_

There’s about a dozen cheeky retorts that pop into Crowley’s head, but he focuses on the task at hand, working throughout the morning, lunch, and the usual 3:00 coffee break. Darcy stops by a few times, asking for progress updates because _I’m fielding calls like a hockey goalie, okay._ Bobby, at least, does Crowley the favor of not breathing down his neck, and even lets Darcy off early, choosing to take the calls himself. He placates the kind ones and growls at the rude ones, and doesn’t take an ounce of shit from the college President when _he_ calls. Crowley’s stomach is growling and his head hurts, but he plows through fifteen more files—they’re navigational menus, _menus_ , he can’t _fathom_ how a menu would be responsible for this—and thinks he’s gone crazy when he smells pizza.

He looks up. Castiel is holding three boxes of pizza and a tray of coffee from the library. Sam Winchester, who runs the campus Starbucks, has even scribbled inspirational messages on the sides of the paper cups.

“Your car is still in the parking lot,” Castiel says, voice flatter than the godforsaken midwest. “I thought dinner might be in order, assuming you leave at all tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s hardly quitting time.”

“It’s six-thirty,” Loki says from his own desk. Crowley’s head whips to the time at the bottom right of his computer screen. Loki is right: it _is_ six-thirty, inching closer to seven, right about the time Crowley would be taking his dog, Kurt, for a walk. Crowley rolls his chair backwards and peers through the doorway, to where Loki is hunched over his keyboard, accepting the bottle of Advil Steve is offering. Steve retracts his hand and brushes his thumb along the line of Loki’s stiff shoulders, a touch he could theoretically laugh off if Loki calls him out on it—which, of course, Loki doesn’t. 

Crowley rolls back to his desk. The mocking can wait until later.

“Well,” Crowley says, after a moment. “I don’t make a habit of thanking people, but it won’t hurt this time. This pizza might honestly save Clint from gnawing off his own hand.”

“ _Pizza_ ,” comes Clint’s disembodied voice. “I thought that smell was my wishful thinking.” Clint appears out of nowhere, glancing from the food to Cas. “Mary’s tits, you’re a godsend.”

Castiel, who is shocked by so little, is struck mute by Clint’s unimaginably crass phrase. Steve splutters from across the way.

It takes another two hours and half of a supreme pizza, but at 8:30, Crowley finds the problem: it’s a typo—a bloody _typo_ —within the code of an associated file that was uploaded around 2:00 P.M. yesterday afternoon. He corrects the mistake, and suddenly the server stops looping to a constant 100%.

Everything loads.

Admission loads. Administration loads. The online learning modules load.

Crowley suspects he could find who uploaded the file, but he just shuts down his computer instead. Who knows when the typo had actually been made? Perhaps it’s been sitting on the testing server for months. Perhaps Bobby made it, or someone from IT who has access to the college’s internal network. There are a lot of possibilities, but the fact is it’s been fixed, and Crowley has every intention of writing it off as an untraceable glitch and forgetting about it.

He goes home with just enough energy to let the dog out, and then he sleeps like the dead.

\---

The thing about web work is that no one actively thanks you for fixing something—they just stop sending nastygrams, which is, for Crowley, thanks enough. He stumbles into his cubicle the next day, relieved to find the site functioning normally and doubly-relieved that his inbox contains the usual fare: a campus-wide congratulations to the basketball team, which won some championship, and an SGA announcement of ‘free soda and cookies’ at the student center, which Crowley avoids at all costs. A math teacher is trying to give away an ancient laminator; a culinary arts professor is asking for spare cardboard boxes.

And near the top: a message from Castiel Novak.

_Crowley,_

_The site is working efficiently._

_What time did you finally leave?_

_-Castiel Novak,  
Information Technology Services_

Crowley brings up the reply screen.

_8:30. I only made it that far because of the miracle pizza. How did you know which car I drove, anyway?_

_-F. Crowley  
Senior Web Team Management_

By 10:00, Castiel has written back.

_Our buildings share the same parking lot. I have seen you drive up in that silver car. Perhaps you have seen mine. It is the tan Nissan that rarely starts._

_-Castiel Novak,  
Information Technology Services_

_Perhaps_ Crowley has seen it? That bloody eyesore could be spotted from orbit. 

_Ah, yes, the one with the rust stains. A relic if I’ve ever seen one._ He pauses typing, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

 _Coffee?_ he finally writes. _I’m usually at the library about 3:00._

_-F. Crowley  
Senior Web Team Management_

He feels strangely foolish as he hits ‘send’. Why should he care if Cas declines? If anything, Crowley should be happy. Coffee time is _his_ time. Occasionally he’ll go with Loki, but mostly it’s an excuse to stretch his legs and get a breath of air that hasn’t been circulating around a cubicle all day. He minimizes his e-mail window and decides a ‘no, thanks’ from Cas would be best, and on the off-chance Castiel accepts, then it’ll only be this once. No need to make a habit out of it.

The answer is nearly instantaneous.

_I’ll meet you there._

_-Castiel Novak,  
Information Technology Services_

\---

It becomes a bloody habit.

It’s unforeseen, but Crowley can’t help himself: Castiel is hilarious without even trying, so deadpan that half the time Crowley doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic or sincere, and it takes weeks to realize Cas is _always_ sincere. They meet up almost every day, and at first Crowley thinks no one will notice, but Loki—of _course_ Loki—starts shooting him suspicious looks and, more worrisome, monitoring Crowley’s e-mail. (Crowley doesn’t catch onto this until January, when a message from Cas is marked as ‘read’ even though Crowley is deathly certain he never opened it. He tries changing his password, but the effort has no effect. He decides not to worry. It’s not like Cas is going to send him porn or anything.)

Clint finds out by the more common means of gossip. He learns from Gabriel (head of janitorial services, and who, Crowley might add, is an awful janitor, leaving candy wrappers around like calling cards) who learns from _Sam_ that Cas and Crowley have a daily coffee date. Crowley wants to yell that they aren’t _dates_ , Jesus _Christ_ , but Clint practically sticks his fingers in his ears, so it’s not worth the trouble.

Natasha acts like she’s known the whole time. (She probably has.)

Still, it’s kind of grating, especially when Darcy flounces by and says, “I met your boyfriend in the computer lab today.” She lowers her voice to add, “He’s kind of cute! I mean, not my type, but if you dig dudes who are way out of touch with pop culture—”

“Good _bye_ , Darcy,” Crowley grits out, pointedly ignoring Loki’s snickering.

That Friday, about a month and a half after the Great Site Crash of 2012, Cas e-mails him just before 1:00.

_A projector has stopped working in building 23. I will have to miss our meeting._

_Would you like to have dinner tonight instead? 7:00. I know a diner that is quite good._

_-Castiel Novak,  
Information Technology Services_

Crowley stares at the message like he’s never seen words before. The less rational part of him wants to pull his hair out and throw himself into walls because Loki, Sam, Clint—they were all _right_ , those _were_ coffee dates, and now Cas has taken a step forward and asked Crowley on a _real_ date, the sort you go on at night, at places that aren’t located on college campuses.

 _Be rational,_ he thinks. First: men have meals together all the time. Second: co-workers have meals together all the time. Third: friends (which Crowley assumes they are) have meals together _all the time_. What on God’s green earth is he so concerned about? Clint’s mocking? Please. Crowley could bury that man if he wanted to.

_Look at that! My schedule is free. What's the name of the place?_

_-F. Crowley  
Senior Web Team Management_

He sends it before he can decide otherwise. (Hell, he even tells Loki. Maybe now he’ll stop hacking into Crowley’s e-mail so often.)

\---

Dinner that Friday becomes dinner next Friday, which becomes dinner every Friday, usually at the diner. Crowley thinks it’s kind of pathetic that he and Cas have both been working at the college for over five years, sharing the same parking lot, and yet they hardly exchanged ‘hellos’ before the Great Phone Installation of 2012 (which Crowley later learns tested Cas and Steve’s will to live).

Dean, who owns the diner, takes his sweet time warming up to Crowley. Evidently he and Cas are life-long friends, and Dean has a protective streak a mile wide. Crowley wants to explain that Cas can certainly handle himself—if he doesn’t like you, he has no qualms saying so to your face—but Dean is stubborn, perhaps even more so than Clint, and refuses to crack a smile until Crowley orders an entire pear pie for the office.

Dean is an asshole, but he’s an asshole who’s tremendously good at baking. 

Sometimes they go to movies Cas doesn’t understand, and sometimes they walk (for the sake of walking, after being cramped in front of a computer for seven hours) a half-mile to this sweet bakery joint that Darcy swears _puts crack in their cinnamon rolls, that’s how addictive they are_. They just... shoot the breeze, like normal human beings, and it’s not entirely unpleasant.

“We had a sexual harassment seminar today,” Cas tells him around a mouthful of brownie as they walk back to their cars from the bakery. It’s February now, and still stupidly cold. “I couldn’t help but think of Clint. It’s God’s work that he hasn’t been subjected to multiple lawsuits throughout the years.”

Crowley actually laughs, imagining Castiel sitting in the seminar, taking dutiful notes so that he can pass them on to Clint. (Bobby gave up on it years ago; Crowley and Loki don’t care in the first place, and Natasha could make Clint _suffer_ if he ever laid a hand on her. He’s not bright, but Clint has the survival instincts to know better.)

“A harassment seminar? Oh, that’s great news. Means all the departments will have to sit through it, eventually,” Crowley predicts. “I assume feeling up your co-workers is still frowned upon.”

Cas crinkles up his brownie wrapper.

“Based on the lecture, every conceivable gesture of interest is discouraged. Even asking someone on a date can get you in trouble, if they take it the wrong way.”

“The simple solution is not to ask.”

“Yes, that’s the simple one,” Castiel agrees. He shoves the wrapper in his pocket as they make their way down the empty sidewalk. “Though it becomes less simple in certain cases. Steve and Loki, for instance.” 

“A jury would never convict Steve Rogers of harassment,” Crowley declares. “One look at his wholesome face and the trial would be over.”

“But for people who aren’t as... charismatic. People like myself, or you. There’s a pressure to never say the wrong thing, or be perceived as doing the wrong thing.”

Castiel doesn’t normally dig his claws into a subject like this, and Crowley has a suspicion that Cas is saying one thing but trying to convey something else altogether. He stops walking; Cas doesn’t notice until he’s three steps ahead, and then he stops, too, turning back to where Crowley has glued his feet.

“There’s someone you want,” Crowley realizes. Castiel’s expression goes smooth with disinterest, just like Loki when there’s something he doesn’t want to discuss.

“You’re mistaken.”

“There’s someone you want, and you’re afraid they might scream bloody murder and dash to HR.”

Cas crosses his arms. “Now you’re laughing at me.”

“I’d _never_. But, on the off-chance I am, you are required to tell me about this person. It’s not Dean, is it? Sure he’s handsome enough, but—”

“It isn’t Dean,” Cas huffs, resuming their walk. Crowley hurries to catch up with him.

“Didn’t think so. Is it someone in your department? Or mine? Clint obviously doesn’t even make the list, so that narrows it down to, oh, anyone on campus.”

“I refuse to say.”

“That’s a poor strategy, friend. I’ll get Loki on your case, and let me tell you, he puts me to shame. Or worse, so much worse, are Loki and Gabriel combined. Can you fathom it?”

Castiel’s eyes dart towards Crowley. “You wouldn’t. That’s a declaration of war.”

Crowley doesn’t disagree. It would be quite the sneaky, underhanded thing to do, but Crowley’s curiosity is the universe’s fifth force of nature. How is he meant to ignore it?

“Oh-ho, but I _would_. You might as well spill it now. And look, here we are, alone on the side of the road. We’re practically in the cone of silence.”

“The cone of silence rarely worked.”

“What? Of course it did. Maxwell Smart just never read the manual. And don’t try to change the subject.”

“If you can’t deduce it yourself, then you aren’t nearly as clever as you think.”

They dare to jaywalk across the road and onto the campus, which is sparsely populated with faculty cursed to teach night classes. Hell, even Bobby is gone for the weekend. They pass the library, where Sam can be seen cleaning up the Starbucks counter, and then round the cosmetology building, which dumps out into their parking lot. Just ahead is Cas’ deplorable rolling deathtrap and Crowley’s silver beauty, parked next to one another in a stark contrast. It used to be that Crowley would tease Cas, saying _your car is going to give my Mustang tetanus_ , but then considered Cas’ old clothes and brown-bag lunches and thought to himself, _I am an idiot._ He stopped poking fun after that.

“I am _more_ clever than I think. This is your last chance. After today I’ll stop at nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Except legal action. Oh, wait, that’s your concern, not mine.”

“Lawsuits are not a laughing matter.”

Crowley stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans against the side of his car. 

“A laughing matter? Sure it is. Ha ha ha,” he says.

“Crowley—”

“Ha ha ha. I can do this all day.”

“Crowley,” Cas repeats, punctuating it with a sigh. “Be an adult, please.”

“You know,” Crowley goes on, like he doesn’t hear Cas, “I am going to write up a legal document—” He reaches out and hooks his finger in the pocket of that terrible tan jacket. “—and make both of us sign it—” He pulls, and Cas reluctantly shuffles towards him until the ends of their shoes practically touch. “—and it’s going to read something like, ‘I do hereby grant kissing rights to the following parties, and promise to never slap them with frivolous legal action’, and there’s going to be two lines at the bottom for our signatures. We’ll sign it in pen, of course, and perhaps even in blood as well, if that’s what it takes.”

And Castiel Novak, with his flat voice and dull clothes, and who rules the campus intranet with an iron fist, and who no one sees because he’s forgettable (except he isn’t, Crowley knows that now), smiles so wide that his gums show, and lets Crowley trace his bottom lip with his thumb before leaning in to kiss him.

“Technically,” Crowley murmurs, pulling away just long enough to get in one last remark, “ _I_ just sexually harassed _you_ , so if you’re done worrying yourself over it—”

“Shut up,” Cas cuts in, pulling at Crowley with eager, unpracticed hands, “just—come _here_ ,” and Crowley is feeling generous, so he does.

\---

It’s sometime in March when Crowley arrives to work, where everything is SOP except for the small matter concerning his office chair, and more importantly, the fact it’s missing.

So. It’s going to be one of _those_ days.

He sighs, stows away his briefcase, and figures there are two possibilities: either Clint has broken his own chair ( _again_ ) and dared to steal Crowley’s, or someone has a visitor and requires additional seating, which Crowley is willing to forgive on the condition he likes the visitor. He does a quick equation in his head: Natasha never has company + Clint never has company + Loki sometimes lures Steve here with the promise of a broken computer = Loki must have the chair, and so he stomps across the tiny hall and, son of a gun, there it is.

There are also flowers. 

As a rule, the web team gets very little exposure to nature. They see photos of trees online, and can look out their windows and observe patches of grass, but to have nature come _inside_ , into _their_ domain, is unexpected and perhaps a bit threatening, judging by the way Clint and Natasha stare at the bright yellow bouquet. Clint is sitting backwards in Crowley’s beloved chair, chin balanced on the edge of the backrest, while Natasha stands next to him, arms crossed. They study the flowers the same way postal personnel study unmarked brown packages; meanwhile, Loki is doing his damnedest not to look anywhere but his Excel spreadsheet.

“I’m hurt I wasn’t invited to this party,” Crowley says, blatantly disregarding the tense and unsubtle air. “And Barton, you have something of mine.”

Clint just points at the vase. 

“These were here when we got in this morning,” he explains. “Steve left 'em. I needed a place to sit so I could soak up Loki’s mortification.”

“He also left a note asking for a date, and we aren’t leaving until Loki accepts,” Natasha adds. 

Other fools might think Natasha is joking (because surely Loki wouldn’t hesitate _now_ , after all his sly courting has come to fruition), but Crowley’s learned the hard way that she doesn’t kid. This is serious business, which is the worst sort of business to get tangled in at 7:30 in the morning. 

“You haven’t _called him_? Weeks of—of pretending to lose your password, and faking a virus, and all that nonsense, and you haven’t called?” Crowley pauses. “What is it, now that you have him you don’t want him anymore? The thrill of the chase is over?”

Loki angrily swirls around and snaps, “Don’t be stupid, it doesn’t suit you. Of course I’m going to call.”

Crowley readies an argument of the I-don’t-believe-you variety—only to have it cut short by Bobby, who finds it perfectly acceptable to shove Crowley aside. Neanderthal. 

“Thought I hired you idjits to work,” he complains, before spotting the flora. “Jesus Christ. Did someone die and I didn’t hear about it?”

“They’re from Steve Rogers. He’s parried but Loki won’t thrust, if you know what I mean,” Clint announces, which sounds rather dirty but gets the point across. In any case, Clint seems perfectly happy to spread the news, and will probably be the first to tell Gabriel, ensuring the entire campus knows by the end of the day.

Bobby just shrugs.

“Can you blame him? He worked this hard to get Steve Whathisname’s attention. Now he’s nervous.” Bobby turns and rambles out the door, but not before adding, “Nervous or not, you’d better start dialing. And after that, _maybe_ you idjits will get busy!”

Natasha gives Loki’s shoulder a reassuring (Natasha! Reassuring! The sky must be falling) touch as she leaves, and Clint, despite everything, sighs and climbs off the chair.

“You got this, dude,” he promises Loki. “Only men with serious balls leave other men flowers, so Steve means business.”

“Not helping. Please escort yourself out,” Crowley tells him. Clint holds up his hands and disappears down the hall, leaving Loki and Crowley alone in the little room. Crowley reclaims his chair and then clears his throat. Loki, for all his customary confidence, casts an uneasy look Crowley’s way.

“I’ll only say this once: Steve Rogers likes you, and I have no doubt he’s spent all morning obsessively checking his cell phone. _Call him_.”

Loki’s jaw becomes tight, but he withdraws Steve's note from his top drawer and smooths it out with long, careful fingers.

“Fine,” he agrees. “But... don’t listen.”

It’s a shameless request from a man who regularly hacks Crowley’s e-mail, but regardless, Crowley moves himself (and his chair, thank you very much) back to own cubicle, boots up his computer, and plugs in his ear buds. He launches the music player that Cas lets him get away with, and shuffles his playlist, drowning out the click of the phone keys, and Loki’s uncertain, hopeful, terrified (but calm, always calm), “Hello, Steve.”

Crowley can’t wait to tell Cas when he gets home.

FIN.

_Work is love made visible._  
-Kahlil Gibran


End file.
